


Please Don't Cry

by Anonymous



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017)
Genre: Abortion, Hurt, M/M, Mpreg, Timmy is pregnant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-07-13 03:36:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16009469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Timmy tells Armie he's pregnant.





	1. In·i·ti·a·tion

“Armie, I’m serious.”

Timmy looks beyond stressed; his hair is decorated with knotty curls. His nose reddened a fuchsia peach color, like he’d been crying before visiting. He appears smaller than usual, limbs tense and closed together. His thin, long branch like arms huddled against his narrow string of torso. The overly large beige sweater on him bundling like a present around his frame, the clothes wearing him, not him wearing the clothes.

“But,” Armie sighs, every ounce of sense not reaching his core. His brain re-wiring, updating like an old computer, “but how?”

Timmy looks like he’s about to bolt or break down, Armie can’t tell but the sight itself is frustrating, overwhelming, Armie feels like he’s about to choke.

Timmy blinks down at the tiles below their feet, his breathing getting harsher, more tortured by the second.

“Don’t-“ Don’t _cry_ , Armie wants to tell him, but it’s useless.

Timmy sniffles, rubbing his nose and glancing up, once, then down again.

“I- I never told anybody, besides my family but-“

Timmy coughs, audibly staving off a sob. It resonates inside Armie in a disgusting way. It is the nastiest feeling, watching someone you painfully are attached to break down into pieces.

“It’s like a biological glitch, I’m- I-“

He exhales frustratedly, pinching his nose bridge with a pained crinkle etching between two thick, almost kissing brows.

“I ovulate out my fucking ass, I can get-“

Spit floods Armie’s mouth, so full of surprise Armie’s instinctual bodily functions seemed to have shut off. He swallows, the numbness in his throat lingers.

“Pregnant.” Armie says.

Timmy scoffs, “thanks. Yes, I can get pregnant. I’m not going to spell out the logistics of it for you but-“

Before Timothee can continue his ramble Armie nods stiffly, “it’s okay,” he tells him, voice croaky and dry. Like chalk, or peeling drywall.

Timmy looks at him, right through him, it’s eerily still, like he could crawl into Armie’s brain and read each individual gnawing thought that blackens inside him and keeps him up at night.

“I don’t know what to think about this, Timmy… this is.. just _wow_.”

He knows it comes out wrong, like Timmy’s a freak show or something. The darkening expression that overtakes Timothee’s face confirms that it did sound horrible. Armie shrinks inside with immediate regret.

Timmy strides towards him, so quick in his long steps that Armie’s sure he’s about to get punched. He barely refrains himself before Timmy’s shoving something into his chest, into Armie’s palms, it’s cold, thin and long.

There’s a cruel twist to Timothee’s grimace, “well you better get deciding.”

And then Timmy’s gone, nearly running out of Armie’s house in a blink. Time couldn’t have stretched longer than five seconds before the mahogany wood of Armie’s front door makes a sound slam on its polished hinges.

Armie stares off at the empty hall, hearing his heartbeat bump a frantic bass in his eardrums, red hot, a warning siren.

The dig of the tip of the narrow object in his palms makes him remember to look.

It’s a clearblue Pregnancy test. Plastic, white and scary to see again. Liz’s was a happy shock, this is his career ending. The pink positive two lines shine from Armie’s overhead ceiling bulbs, glinting back at him mercilessly.

\+ * +

“I can’t Tim, I’m sorry,” he says into his phone, the gaping hole in his chest splitting deeper with each exiting word, it’s all he can do.

“You can’t?” Timmy repeats, sounding distant on the other line like he’s in disbelief.

It ignites the dormant fury in Armie’s chest that isn’t at all built on rage from anything to do with Timmy, but Timmy’s torturous pleas and wants tempt to awaken it. It’d be so simple for Timmy to do absolutely whatever he wants. He’d have no issue to have kids with anyone he chooses, he could date, fuck, make out with anyone of choice. Armie no longer has that luxury. He has to upkeep his plastic façade of a perfect life for the too bright Hollywood lights, the shiny white veneer smiles and the intrusive interviewer’s money hungry questions.

 He just can’t.

“I have kids, Timmy. I have Liz.”

“And?” Timmy argues, voice etching with a break on the end.

“So I can’t be there, nobody can ever know. I don’t know what I’d do without Liz.”

The nearly soundless air through the mic turns to an uneven, hiccupped breath, then a clear, earth shattering sob.

Timmy’s crying. Every hitch of breath jabs at Armie’s ribs.

An audible clearing of throat is heard, the fabric rustle of Timmy wiping his wet nose as well.

“Well you should’ve thought about that before you pulled your fucking dick out of your pants,” Timmy spits coldly.

Then the line dies.

\+ * +

It’s been a two weeks since the call. They haven’t spoken a word. The usual silly, cutesy little ‘good mornings’ with a cheesy wink face from Timmy are a thing of the past.

Armie’s fingers itch to click on his name every time he sends a text, he just wants to call him, talk about his day like when things were normal. Armie misses them.

The thought of Timmy growing a piece of Armie inside his warm, soft, flat tummy makes Armie’s lip twinge with warmth and his gut do somersaults.

It also arises pure panic every time Liz catches his eye. He outrageously worries that one day she’ll be able to read his mind.

But most of all, Armie wants Timmy to keep it.

It’s crazy, farfetched and nearly impossible for it to work out without anyone getting suspicious but god does Armie want him to. Timmy hadn’t yet mentioned abortion but Armie knows its on his mind, how couldn’t it be? He’s pretty much Hollywood’s new it boy, people are constantly thirsting for every detail they can get of his life.

Armie sits down in his rarely used oak desk chair. The unused leather seat makes a soft noise, tight and nearly brand new in its life.

The pen and paper are waiting for him. Elizabeth writes to his mother every now and then, his ma is pointedly old fashion. She’s conservative and mannequin-like, just like Elizabeth.

Armie tastes the bitterness seep into his veins. He bites down on his knuckle just to numb the agitation of his repeated, tired thoughts.

He picks the middle Montblanc pen up, careless of the way Elizabeth had neatly ordered them.

_(“I want the Coral to be on this end, the light gray on the other. You know what happened last time I sent your mother a letter with Coral,” she had scolded him when he misplaced the Coral on the top of her stack of papers._

_“Liz, her dress had to have been defective, there’s no way ink doesn’t dry for three days!” he had grumbled, fuming inside at the complete pointlessness of the situation. His mother could purchase that Saint Laurent dress over twenty thousand times if she fancied.)_

He sighs, swirling the ink tip of the cobalt blue in a circle before it gives way, new vibrancy exiting from it.

_‘ **Dear Timothée, I’m sorry for the way I acted. You know how I get. When things get too hard, too suffocating I just shut down. I’m like a computer on hyper drive, the fan burning out, ~~I just~~ I needed time to think. I’ve thought it through. I want you to keep it, ~~the~~ our baby.**_

**_I’ve thought about you every night. I’ve think about you when I wake up. I think about you when I’m doing absolutely anything._ **

**_I’ve been thinking about the baby. The fetus, ~~It has~~ It’s  been making my head spin. I never thought it’d be possible, but the sheer idea of you holding my baby on your hip, holding he or she, washing them, caring for them, loving them, it means everything to me. I already know this’ll sound corny (and I can already imagine you laughing as you read this) but it truly makes my heart feel full. Any chance I get, (I’ll do anything) just to be there. The thought of holding a child that looks like you is indescribable to me._ **

**_I want to see you grow big, glowing and into a parent that you’ve naturally always had the qualities of. You’re so caring, so beautiful, so you._ **

_**Please, when you read this give me a call. Come visit when you can. I miss you terribly.** ’_

It’s messily written and there’s a decent amount of scribbled out words but it’ll do. Armie’s heart aches just looking at the blemished paper, his heart is written deep into the crevices filled by ink.

\+ * +

He mails it off with a happy smile meeting his face. He feels relief flood every pore.

He’d made the right decision.

Later, when he climbs into bed by an already asleep Elizabeth he thinks about Timmy. He doesn’t think about Elizabeth, her rail thin legs curved tiredly in the sheets, soft puffs of breath escaping her sound sleeping lips, nor the messy hair that curls onto her silk pink sleep mask.

He thinks about Timmy.

Timmy in the future with a gleaming smile, holding their little boy on his knee, toddler aged and full of messy brunette hair, looking every inch of Timmy.

It might be farfetched that their child would be a spitting image of Timothee but it is perfect to Armie.

Just perfect.


	2. Swallow Me Whole

Vrum

Vrum

Vrum

The ringing tone makes Armie want to throw his iphone down on the brick his vast expanse of driveway.

It’s been two weeks.

He’d sent it to Timmy’s personal P.O box, there’s no way in hell he didn’t receive it yet Armie hasn’t gotten any sort of response. No text, no call, no letter, no nothing besides the occasional paparazzi shot that proves Timmy is continuing with life as normal.

It’s fucking bullshit.

The call declines for the third time in a row. Armie grits his teeth angrily and huffs dramatically.

So he calls again, jabbing at his screen like being more forceful will make it easier to get through to Timmy.

Vrum

Vrum

Vrum

“What?”

It is Timmy’s irritated voice rumbling through the phone.

“I- Timmy, what the fuck?”

The bitterness of the distant wait is nipping at his tone, he can’t help it. Timmy doesn’t deserve to sound snappy but Armie has every right to be.

“What the fuck is right. Why are you bothering me?” Timmy asks, sounding completely not like the bubbly, giddy bright eyed boy he’s used to.

“I… I thought the letter would help you understand that I was sorry,” Armie says. He feels a nasty bitterness burning in his throat at the hurt of Timmy’s indifference.

Timmy’s quiet for a second, then a soft, telltale sigh.

“It’s been hard, Armie.”

Armie sighs mutually, “I understand, Tim. But you got to open up with me. I can’t just sit around looking at new pictures of you pop up and not know what you’re doing or what you are thinking. It’s been driving me crazy.”

Timmy coughs, awkward and fake, he hears a muffling noise, Timmy covering the phone mic or something. A soft, pleading “give me a minute” is said from Timmy to somebody else, probably his publicist.

“I’m back,” Timmy says, the sound around him more quiet now.

“Jenna?” Armie asks.

“No, it’s Aaron,” Timmy tells him. Jenna and Aaron are his main publicists, Armie wonders if they know.

“Do they know?”

Timmy swallowing is audible, like whatever he’s about to say is something he doesn’t like.

“Yes, they know… it’s not good.”

Panic sinks into Armie’s stomach. He thinks about all the golden age actresses her were forced into abortions because of their management teams, Timmy being a boy is ten thousand times worse in that scenario.

“Not good? They aren’t trying to force you to get a-“

Timmy interrupts in time, “no, Jenna would never do that. Aaron doesn’t like the situation at all but he wouldn’t tell me that. It just fucking sucks.”

Armie frowns deeply, hesitant on what more he can say. This situation is more delicate than the ancient china glass Elizabeth owns.

“I want to get rid of it,” Timmy admits, his voice soft and gentle unlike the words that fall freely from his mouth.

It cuts right under Armie’s ribs the second the words play over in his head.

The tears burn at Armie’s eyes but he feels fucked up and numb all at once.

“Fuck,” he groans, rubbing a heavy palm down his face, “Timmy, don’t say that.”

There’s a thickness to Timmy’s voice when he replies, it’s hurt and sure and just not what Armie wants to ever hear again.

“I can’t do anything else.”

A tear leaks out of Armie’s eye and it trails the lingering burn all the way down, cooling to drip off at his chin.

“Just… let me see you before you head off back to New York, please,” Armie tells him, he’ll beg if he has to get his arms around that boy of his.

A hitch of the breath, a knock on the door, and Timmy simply says “okay,” before ending the call with a click.

\+ * +

Armie’s making himself a dark roasted pot of Columbian coffee. It’s been two days since he phoned Timmy. Life has been life. He’d gotten a new suit tailored at Tom Fords yesterday for this upcoming Sunday. Elizabeth’s cousins are scheduled to arrive in town then for lunch at the Providence.

Elizabeth’s currently visiting her mother’s house. She’d sent him texts about today’s events. Harper’s taking her 2nd nap of the day in Judy’s guest bedroom. Ford’s eating Chicken Paella with tomato soup at the kitchen’s bar counter and Elizabeth is having Crown Royal drinks with her mother. Armie’s relieved to be missing out on the inevitable ignorant banter, especially the likes of what crawls out of Judy’s throat.

His phone hums against the counter, vibrating and lighting up stark white.

He pours a third of boiled coffee into a mug, hesitantly taking a sip just to pull back at the too sharp burn of the heat.

Armie places it down on a coaster, watching the steam rise and dance away like mini ghosts in a tango.

**_Hey_ **

It’s a text from Timmy.

The heat floods his chest before he can even process it.

Another vibration that jolts his heart strings like electric wires surging.

**I drove by, I seen your car so I know you’re home.**

Just as Armie taps to respond the phone vibrates in his hands.

**I’m outside**

Armie discards his phone on the counter, leaving it directly besides his cooling abandoned coffee.

He tries to steady his strides to slow them down. He doesn’t want to come across as too antsy or excited.

Quickly, he fixes his disheveled wrinkled off white button up, then straighten the cuffs on each wrists right before the door.

He sighs, heart beat punching his chest like a drunk girl erratically waving her arm at an LSD rave party. Armie’s been there, done that.

The door shudders open like the quivering of uncertainty in his bones. The knob gives to reveal Timmy just as expected.

Timmy looks like Timmy, but different.

“Hey,” Timmy says, glancing up momentarily just to let his emerald eyes flutter back to focus on Armie’s chest instead of his eyes.

“Hey, Tim,” Armie grins, he can’t help the feeling of the sun rising in his chest, peaking on his cheeks in a golden burst of warmth.

Timmy’s huddled together, even though the fall is barely settling in he’s wearing a too big hoodie, he’s buried in it and his eyes are sullen. The bags under his eyes tell more true stories than Timmy tells.

He reaches to touch Timmy’s shoulder, just the softest graze of his outer fingers.

They share a fleeting look, Timmy eyes looking empty and full of thoughts all at once.

Armie guides him inside, Timmy’s slow to follow. Even his steps seem weak and defeated.

They sit in the living room. Armie follows every movement of Timmy with his eyes.

Timmy’s nervous tapping of his fingers together as he clasps them on his black jean cladded knee, his bouncing of his foot, his distant, far away glances at the Alyssa Monk original painting Armie purchased one night he stayed at the Hilton in Brooklyn.

“I don’t know.. Armie,” Timmy says, voice shaky and breaking the silence like a wrecking ball. The torture in his voice is evident even if Timmy tries to hide it. He’s soft hearted and it shows through him. That explains why he’s such a talented actor, he experiences emotion truly, he takes everything in, _lets it consume him whole_.

 “Timmy, you know I’m here for you,” he tries, his stress attaching like hooks onto his words even though he doesn’t want it to.

Timmy looks directly at him with bleary eyes. He has that look in his irises like the world has run him over time and time again.

Armie just wants to hug him.

He pulls him by the wrist, Timmy is slow to budge. The look on his face just shows that he wants to collapse in on himself.

“Armie,” Tim tries, pulling back to get away from Armie’s pulling embrace. The separation between them weakens the phantom duct tape that was holding the broken pieces of Armie’s heart together.

Armie looks down at the ground, imagining feeling the world moving under his toes. He’s caged inside his thoughts, his _wants_.

“You know I can’t keep it.”

Armie doesn’t flinch but it still digs, he’d expected it.

He sighs, caving in, “I know.”

He hesitates, wanting to hold Timmy but not overstep whatever unspoken boundaries they have between them.

“Can I kiss you?” Armie says, instead.

Timmy blinks at the wall besides Armie, somberness overtaking his gaze. His eyes glisten. Armie feels  sadness building a home in his core.

“That will just make things harder,” Timmy whispers.

“But I want to,” Armie replies, it’s all it takes to switch the expression on Tim’s face.

Timmy moves towards him immediately, pressing up on his left leg and grabbing a handful of jawline as his mouth kisses poetry into Armie’s awaiting mouth.

It’s a slick, too much _not enough_ pressure of saliva and the clasping of their souls in a heart breaking acceptance. A sullen unwanted agreement they both have to come to.

“I’m sorry,” Timmy gasps against his lips, his voice etching on a break on the end, the tearing in his soul telltale to his lips.

Armie cups his delicate cheek, feeling the soft skin give into the rough pads of his dig.

“Don’t be.”

Timmy closes his eyes, Armie rubs their noses together soft and fleetingly.

He glances down. Timmy’s grey hoodie doesn’t give any notice of any sort of bump. He can’t be far along much at all.

“May I see?”

His voice comes out rougher, more gravelly than expected. His throat dry and his heart pumping, he’s not going to mention it but he’d honestly give his leg for an ultrasound picture. It’s pathetic but he can truly imagine still reminiscing and looking back on the image in years to come.

“Yeah,” Timmy answers, pulling back awkwardly. A blush rising red on his cheeks.

Armie understands, it’s personal for him and a lot to take in.

“Okay,” Timmy huffs, mostly to himself as he clumsily unzips his jacket.

Armie sits there in silence, sort of like he’s watching a miracle happen right before his eyes.

Timmy pulls up his stark white undershirt up, revealing a smooth, flat tummy.

Armie’s eyes glaze over his belly, his cheeks hot as he glances up at a sheepish Timmy.

“So… yeah, there’s not much to see,” Timmy says, going to pull down his shirt.

He reaches a hand out to stop him, “come on Tim, let me see,” Armie asks, swallowing thickly.

Timothee’s lips twitch, a telltale that’s he’s having conflicting thoughts about this.

Silently, Timmy approaches closer. Bony jean clad knees pressing up against Armie’s resting ones.

Feeling unsure of Timmy’s comfortability on the situation, Armie chooses to just let his eyes roam free. Timmy doesn’t look much different at all but there’s this instinctual need for Armie to _feel_.

As if he has telekinesis, Timmy grabs his hands and leads the way.

“Feel,” Timmy whispers.

Armie does. He palms both sides, using his fingers to rub a bit, trying to assess the size or any rise of the bump.

It feels small but firm, a soft rise to his middle, the slightest curve starting an inch above his waistband and ending right above his belly button.

“You’ve been to the doctors, right?”

Timmy nods, knotty curls entangling below sharp cheekbones, “yeah of course, Jenna got the 2nd top rated private physician in California to come up from Vista,” he admits with an eye roll.

“I’m eleven weeks by the way.”

The giddy flipping in his stomach makes him queasy when he thinks about it. Excitement in something awaiting death makes his emotions destined for failure.

Armie flattens one palm, completely overtaking the swell in his palm.

He sighs in awe, disappointment and forlorn disdain at what waits.


	3. Fin.

Timmy yawns, stretching out till his bones pop.

He feels tired, sore and defeated.

He could sleep for hours.

Armie’s crying in the corner.

A soft weeping.

+*+

The hospital ceiling is secretly driving him crazy. He feels like he counted the tiles over five hundred times now.

Armie’s by his side, holding his hand and murmuring words of comfort.

Timmy cries at the notion. Hugs him.  
Timmy’s stomach is empty, deflated.

+*+

He holds his baby when the nurses bring her.  
She’s cherubic.

She looks of Armie but she’s got Timmy’s eyes.

Timmy feels weak, loves her so already.  
Armie kisses his cheek and hers, too.

+*+

“Why did you decide to keep her?” Armie asks one night, three nights into having her.

Timmy brushes her little wisps of curls as she feeds, suckling softly on his nipple.

“I read your letter again, one last time before I was scheduled to leave for my appointment. I couldn’t do it, she was _**ours**_.”

Armie nods in agreement. A smile on his lips.

+*+

“Armie!” a reporter calls, “could we get a word on what your newborn daughter looks like?”

Timmy smiles with a glint in his eye, butting in for him.

“She looks like Armie.”

She smiles big, eating it up.

Armie grins, pulling Timmy closer by his waist.

“No, she looks like _**ours**_.”

+*+

Armie spins her toy night light, smiling as she reaches for it.

“Uh-uh,” he smiles, kissing her fingers.  
She makes a soft gurgling noise as she grins, all cheeky and beautiful like Timmy.

“I love you, my Geneva.”

**Author's Note:**

> Any thoughts?


End file.
